


Won't you catch fate by its tail?

by yunnikakennings



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, snowbazcoffeshopau, snowbazstrangerau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunnikakennings/pseuds/yunnikakennings
Summary: Coffee Shop/Stranger AU in which Simon gets stood up, Baz falls in love from the sidelines and fate messes with them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Baz:**

 

I feel a little silly, coming here every Friday evening, to this quaint little coffeehouse to enjoy my pumpkin mocha breve, reading romantic poetry in a corner by the window, glancing out to watch the world pass by. Like I’m not quite living up to expectations. Like maybe I should be at Coffee Bean instead, or some posh café, typing out a political science report while sipping on black espresso.

But I love the quiet here, where I can sit in solitude without others intruding on my personal space.

For most of the days at least.

Today someone else decided to plonk himself next to me. Yes, plonk. He dashed in like a hurricane a quarter before six, swinging the door open so violently the welcome bell clanged with the announcement of his arrival, tie flying, feet a little too clumsy, barely avoiding a waitress carrying a tray of intricately decorated desserts.

But boy, was he beautiful.

Brown hair with gold swirled in, resulting in a thatch of loose curls that bounced with carefree bliss. Blue eyes, not quite light enough to be described as sky blue but not dark enough to be described as ocean blue. Pretty close to Alice-in-wonderland blue, I suppose. Face with a couple of moles lined along his cheek, his eye- like constellations. Body lightly muscled and lean. I tip my head down, back to my book and try to refrain from staring.

As if out of place in the coffeehouse, he pauses hesitantly near the door, then spots an empty table beside me, scurrying over, dragging out the chair with a squeak, receiving glares from a couple of customers. Fidgeting, he reached for the menu.

I try to block him out, focus on the book I was trying to read (Memories by Lang Leav). My eyes fall on the next page I just turned to. “A stranger”. How apt. I smirk at the audacity of the thought. Fate obviously weaved him with a golden girl he’s dating today, not me, judging by how he’s dressed for the occasion (I highly doubt he wears that every day, a dress shirt, black slacks, a red tie, seeing as he knotted his tie so untidily). It’s not as if I’m interested in such clumsy blokes.  

I cross my legs. Uncross them. Recross them again, frowning. He eats his way into my attention, gnawing away at my mind. I watch him in my peripheral vision, hoping I’m discreet. He’s sitting there with an empty table. It’s ten past five now. Staring at the large clock hung above the cashier as though it’d grant him three wishes, he waits, feet tapping, fingers drumming the wooden table with anxiety. A late date maybe? Suddenly a loud song blares through the coffeehouse, a chorus of voices and he fumbles at his pocket, trying and failing to find his traitorous phone. Not in his pocket. He then tries to search through his bag, yanking out is phone, answering excitedly after catching a glimpse of the caller ID, “Hello? Hi-hi yes, I’m here at Queenie’s”, a pause then a disappointed, “oh, oh I-I see, it’s alright then, yeah sure I’ll be fine, no problem, yes goodbye”. A tap to off the call then he slumps forward on the table, almost knocking over the shakers of sugar and salt. Once again, totally oblivious to the agitated whispers of annoyance and sympathy of those around him.

 

** Simon: **

I have a date with Agatha today. At five. At Queenie’s. Or rather I had an arrangement for a date. She stood me up. I rake my hair through my already messy curls and try to shake my disappointment away. I thought she’d like it here. I wonder if she’s tired of me, our relationship has seen better days after all. I know I’m a terrible boyfriend.

I can plan and make arrangements but they’re never to her liking. Not quite up to her standards. Not quite her taste. Of course she doesn’t say anything but I see the slight wrinkle of her nose when I show her my latest art pieces, her lack of interest in my conversation, the routine way she kisses me after every date (“thank you Simon, that was really wonderful” the same words each time) and I know, I know that I will never be enough.

I slouch and try to bury my head in my arms and shut the thoughts out of my head. I’ll try harder next time. She was just busy. It’ll be alright.

And then I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder.

 

** Baz: **

I wonder if he has any sense at all. He sits there without ordering anything and expects to what, be ignored? An impatient waitress stalks over and taps his shoulder, “Anything you’d like sir?”

He looks up blankly at her, blue eyes glassy, verging on tears. Mouth trembling a little at the edges. And I feel a rush of indignation on his part, he hurried here just to be on time, obviously put in extra effort to look decent today only to be stood up. “N-no, miss, no order”.

The waitress tries to keep her face impassive, “Sorry sir but our seats are reserved for customers only. Please leave if you’re not ordering anything.”

Face flushed, stuttering out an apology he nods his head, gathering up his things and heads for the exit. Footsteps heavy, shuffling.

He looks back to check if he’s forgotten anything, blue eyes despondent, sad. Lifts his eyes to meet mine for a fleeting moment. Like static. Blue and gray. And then it’s over.

 

_ \----------------Does it make you crazy? To think he saw you-his eyes passed over you and if only there had been one small mishap in that pivotal moment. A spilled drink, a stumble through the door-his hand reaching out to steady you and it would have happened. A whole new world would have opened up like a vortex to swallow you both into blissful delirium. But you turned away, out of shyness or indecision and by the time you turned back, he was gone. --------------------------------------------------- _

 

He trudges forward, feet carrying the weight of despondency.

Going.

And it hits me, wrings my heart, a little achy with a stab of jealousy and I wonder for a moment what it’d have been like had it been me in her place. Had it been me he’d loved.

Going.

I watch him leave, the welcome bells tinkling softly, signaling his leave.

Gone.

_ \----------------How do you explain it without sounding unsound? That click you felt when your eyes met his, like the switch of a train track, transporting you for one miraculous moment, to what might have been. ----------------- _

I share my head, stirring my mocha, try to cocoon myself in the comforting sweetness of the coffee. But the coffee has lost its sweet flavor and all that remains is the taste of loss, like he was a meteor that left a crater in his wake.

_ \----------------Then reality intervenes and with a shake of your head, you tell yourself to stop chasing shadows. But I can tell you now-that click you felt, it was real-and you must not ignore it. For it is the sound of your fate beckoning. It is the voice of your destiny calling. Sometimes it only calls once. ------------- _

And maybe it’s wishful thinking, or some willful delusion of mine that yanks me out of my chair, pulling me out of stoned silence and pushing me out of the café door.

I chase his retreating figure. Feet frantically pounding on the cemented pavement as I rush.

“Wait. Hold on.”

I grab his hand. 

And it feels like a new beginning.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Simon:**

I too busy wallowing in my self-pity to eat so a waitress invited me out. And now I’m stomping along the bustling streets (with happy couples), catching curious glances from all sides as people scuttle away from me like I’ve caught some infectious disease.

I wonder if the day can even get any worse.

“Wait. Hold on.” A voice pants out and a cool hand grips mine. I halt.

He’s here. The boy from before. With his smoky grey eyes and slicked back raven hair.

I must look pretty confused because he hurriedly explains, “It’s just- I- you sound like you had a bad day. Like you were in need of some cherry scones and coffee. Perhaps you would like to join me?”

I twitch. I do want a cherry scone. (Some. Actually a lot. I could do with a hell lot of cherry scones to drown my sorrow in.) And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get some coffee. But I don’t even know him. I keep silent.

“Well then. I suppose that’s a no,” he says airily, turning away and stalking off.

“N-no w-wait. Yes! I’d love to get a coffee with you.” I am tired and I do need some company. So I dash after him. Pausing his footsteps, he turns slightly, “well then,” then he’s walking off again, leaving me to scurry after him.

Then we’re back at the cafe. And he opens the door, the bell clanging gently and holds it open, gesturing me in with an arm and a mock bow.  

 

**Baz:**

He’s eating his fifth scone now and I beginning to wonder if one, he have a massive appetite (that of two people), or two, he’s trying to forget his disappointment through bingeing or three, he finds this situation too awkward and is eating so as to avoid speaking.

And I think about how he has absolutely terrible table manners, there are crumbs on the table and even his trousers. Really. His table manners are atrocious-it’s like watching a wild dog eat. A wild dog, you’d like to slip the tongue. (Crowley, stop, Pitch, he has a girlfriend. A girlfriend. He’s obviously straight.)

“I’m Basilton. You can call me Baz,” I introduce myself after he has finished his sixth scone because as much as I like the comfortable silence, I’m curious about his situation too.

He eyes me warily, “Snow. Simon Snow,” he replies through a mouthful of scones.

“What a strange name you have there,” I smile and he flusters before retorting, “Could say the same about yours.”

“You don’t even know my full name.”

“Well wha’s it then?”

“Oh eat like a gentleman would you? You’re spilling crumbs everywhere.”

“This isn’t a date.” He frowns, swallowing a huge mouthful of his seventh scone. Snow has the longest neck and the showiest swallow I have ever seen. His chin juts out and his Adam’s apple catches-it’s a whole scene. I avert my eyes, trying not to dwell on the weight of his words on my heart and glance out of the window, “Of course not, Snow. Do I look gay to you?”

He tilts his head a little, like he’s actually considering the question. It’d have been endearing if not for the current context of the situation.

“Aleister Crowley. Don’t answer that,” I bite out as I throw him a withering glare. He only shrugs and turns back to his scones.

“So why’d your girlfriend stand you up?” I sip my pumpkin mocha breve, feign nonchalance.

He immediately looks like his dog just died, “She's busy. Besides, I’m a terrible boyfriend,” he replies shortly.

Dressing up nicely just for the occasion, planning a date, rushing to be early? _That’s_ called being a terrible boyfriend? Sure, I could see why she might be annoyed, his table manners, not quite suave ways might not be attractive to her but he obviously loved her, wasn’t that enough? (Plus his flaws could be cute too. Ahem.)

“Why? You cheated on her with a hot bloke who hit on you in a bar?” I smirk.

He snorts and sputters, “N-no! ‘Course not! I love Agatha, I’d never cheat on her!”

I waggle my eyebrows, “Really? So sure about your dedication to her eh?”

And he shrinks into his seat, eyes downcast, and “Yeah…but it’ll never be enough. I’m never enough.” Sad smiles. Broken hearts. Love makes fools of us all.

I _hate_ it.

I hate that she doesn’t deserve him.

And I _hate_ that he feels the opposite.

I bite my lip and keep silent.

We chat.

He eats his scones.

I drink my mocha breve.

And then he leaves, footsteps a little lighter. (thanks to me) (or maybe it was the cherry scones that lifted his mood.)

And then I leave, heart a little heavier, wondering if it was better to have had the temporary pleasure of meeting him and falling hopelessly in love or never have met him at all.

(and then I realize I never even got his number)

  

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short :P

**Baz:**

It’s been three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Twenty-one times twenty hours. No…that’s not right.

Twenty-one times twenty-four hours…which is…which is...I can’t seem to work it out.

My mind is hazy, a stark contrast from its usual sharpness and clarity. An ache sends my head spinning, my eyes sting. Everything is blurred now, shady lines and dull colors. Maybe because of the vodka…or was it tequila I ordered?

What’s the difference…what’s the difference…what’s the difference?

I down another glass.

I can’t remember.

Down another.

I can’t bring myself to care.

Down another.

Or maybe it’s my tears blurring my sight. How unmanly. I giggle wetly through my sniffles and exposed tears. (Wouldn’t my father be glad to find me here at a gay bar drunk and pining? Good riddance.)

More likely it’s because of him.

Snow.

_Simon._

All the colors of life disappeared with his shadow and all that remains are fading shades of grey.

I never knew I’d be subject to love’s cliches.

I never knew I’d play the role of a pining romantic with unrequited love.

How boring of me.

I let my head droop onto the wooden table. Wrap my arms around my disheveled hair. A melancholic voice sings from the pub stage, wailing his sorrow (or hers? I don’t even know?) and the music pounds at my ears making me want to rip them off (my ears of my head I mean, not the singer off the stage)

“And if you ever think of me, I bet I’m just a flicker in your head.”

I laugh into my half-empty glass and lift it in mock cheers towards the stage.

No shit, Sherlock.

 

**Simon:**

This is my… third bar? Fourth? I don’t know. But I’ve been to all the others along the street.

Standing at the entrance of a bar, I glance up at the dimly lit sign. Petty’s? Pat’s? I snort a little, eyes too blur to see, thanks to the beer.

Ha. My eyes are blind, who am I kidding? I didn’t even anticipate her leaving till the breakup hit me square in the face.

Me and Agatha.

Agatha and I.

Over.

I swing open the door a little too violently and the welcome bells clang.

Heads swivel.

And I stumble in.

 

**Baz:**

The bells are startlingly loud.

My head snaps up at the memory of Simon crashing in through the café doors just three weeks ago, my traitorous mind clinging wildly to the sliver of hope that maybe-maybe it’s him.

Then I dip my head again quickly and extinguish the hope. Snow wouldn’t come here. It’s a gay bar, for Pete’s sake, Basilton.

He wouldn’t come to Petty’s bar.

Not a chance.

“Oi.” A poke. I ignore the person and continue my wallow in self-pity. I’m not at a bar to make friends (or lovers for that matter, especially not on a night like this one). I just want the alcohol to swallow me into the depths of ignorant bliss in the company of others like me.

“Baz.” Someone grabs my arm and I snarl. “You can’t just grab someone when you want their attention, Mister!” I snap, lifting my head to glare, fuzzy vision aggravating me further.

“I said ‘oi’,” the voice replies, hurt, “plus I called your name. You were clearly ignoring me.”

“Even then, you shouldn’t,” I growl back, a little giddy, not to mention nauseous.

Wait, what? How’d he know my name? Is he a relative? A family friend? Shit, I don’t have any connections other than family and business partners (who’d of course, inevitably know my father) But they wouldn’t come here. Not to Petty’s.

Calm down.

Calm down.

I squint.

Tousled curls,dark gold in the light.

Blue eyes not quite focused.

Aleister almighty.

My stomach flips.

“Simon?”

And then I barf all over his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, I've a lot of unfinished fics so probably I'd write them in this order:  
> April/May:  
> 1\. Won't you catch fate by it's tail (chapter 4 and an epilogue)  
> 2\. And we captured the memory (chapter 2 and maybe an epilogue)  
> June:  
> 3\. Just friends (because this is my favorite out of the 5 works and I want to spend my one-month holiday on it :P)  
> After-June:  
> 4\. If Baz died  
> yup that's it, hope you enjoy (: 
> 
> ps. isn't the Italian cover of Carry On really beautiful, plus there's a new cover coming out in May AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ((((((((((((:


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